


Landfill

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Season 5 Spoilers, Season/Series 05, Unofficial Sequel, sequel to formidable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 18:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11583402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan and Vera reflect over an empty grave, but nothing is as simple as it seems; there's no tying up loose ends here. (The sequel to "Formidable.")





	Landfill

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of "unofficial" sequel to my other fic, Formidable, which can also be read on here. ... Though I suppose this could be read by itself!

> _Throw me in a landfill._  
>  _Don't think about the consequences._  
>  _Throw me in the dirt pit._  
>  _Don't think about the choices that you make._
> 
> **Landfill** – Daughter

“Joan?”

Her eyes are bloodshot, the tears carving into her face. She bats them away. Vera finds it difficult to mask her pain, her shock, her complete and utter dismay upon seeing Joan Ferguson of all people in this cemetery.

So much for the monument.

Her fist hides her quivering mouth, crashing waves of grief threaten to throw her under again.

“Nice to see you're still wearing the bun,” Ferguson remarks whilst slicing through the tension that crackles between them as electricity incarnate.

She wears a humorless smile.

She's pain and sallow.

“Why are you here, Joan?”

The former deputy pipes up. Her voice cracks, akin to static on the tele, distorted and fading fast. This is what it sounds like to be registered out of commission, to feel so fucking hopeless after all the choices you've made.

“I--” She swallows her words. Chokes on them.

_I came to find you._

“I came to see my Jianna.”

_My._

As though she were a possession and not a woman with a sense of self.

Vera takes it in. Nods slowly, albeit steadily.

She accepts it for what it was: a relationship of the unconventional sort, but love nonetheless.

“Can we sit?” The little mouse asks when Joan steps out from under the shade of the Judas tree.

She looks haunted.

They both do.

“I would like that,” Joan surmises, her lilt steady and even despite the gnawing tension of this fated meeting.

Though Vera wears taller heels, she feels neither tall nor proud.

Together, they stroll amicably and imitate the factions of their former life. The rows of tombstones serve as a reminder of death's inevitabilily. You live only to die and you die to live. You reap what you sow.

They sit on a marble bench overlooking the mausoleum. Side by side, they thrive as shells of their former selves. Beneath the tips of their toes, the grass has wilted. 

Vera tucks an errant curl behind her ear. She can sense Joan's eyes upon her: dark and unreadable, their depths holding an enigmatic code that she could never understand. For a fleeting moment, Vera surveys the scuffs that riddle her heels. Finally, she turns her face to Joan.

The Empress. The Ruler. The Killer.

That is what she is.

Vera tries to remind herself of the fact.

They both wear black wondering who and what died.

That proud halo sinks until a red noose forms around Joan's throat. The ugly ligature marks won't fade. It's compromise for her sins come to light.

On this bleak afternoon with the light fading fast, there's no room for monologues – merely an extension of conversation.

“You've won, Joan. You cost me my job.”

Without any stuttering or spluttering, she speaks concisely. She's no longer the nervous ninny scurrying around Wentworth's concrete halls. Nor does she bother wearing the affirmation band anymore. Her blue eyes are shining, staring back into a mirror that's twisted her reflection.

Joan's mouth opens and promptly closes. Call her Pandora's Box: there's too many secrets inside and the cost is always too high.

“I know,” she states matter-of-factly, wondering when the first straw was the last for her underling.

“I should hate you, for what you did to me.”

Somewhere along the way, these feels knotted up and became something undefinable. They live in the grey.

Joan's hands rest in her lap. Since her run-in with death, more silver threads throughout the black curtain of her hair.

“And do you?”

While partly inquisitive, she's uncertain if she wants to hear the truth.

Joan opens her mouth. Her jaw locks itself, the joints refusing to cooperate. She may rust. Bruised and beaten, she's still here. They both are.

“No,” Vera replies too softly, as though the word were a figment of Joan's imagination. “--not anymore."

The branches from a neighboring tree form a web that projects itself as a shadow, ensnaring them both. Their knees touch. It's unintentional. An innocence to it that's similar to their first day in corrections. How they've changed since then.

Her throbbing body's made of lead, all of her muscles aching and throbbing. Heavy bags rest underneath her eyes, her cheekbones noticeably more pronounced.

“I've resigned from my position at Wentworth,” Vera confesses. Her fingers twitch; they have a life of their own, restless in her lap. She furrows her brows, which is a telltale habit of hers when she has given a subject far more thought than it actually deserves. She's decided to take up a career in counseling; perhaps she can do some good that way.

“You're giving in.”

Joan sounds disappointed.

She hates that unsavory note; the wrong strings of her instrumental heart have been plucked.

Vera winces.

"Channing..."

She uses his name as an excuse.

"--Needs to be taken care of," Joan surmises when she stands.

"He's _despicable_ ," Vera murmurs, surprised by the harsh quality of her own voice. There's venom there. Genuine loathing. She'd like to see justice be served. Working in corrections has altered her perception on the law; absolute truth doesn't exist behind iron bars.

Suddenly, it's as though they see eye to eye.

How strange they must look to each other: sitting here as ghosts in the midst of ashes.

Ashes.

And they fell down.

Joan swallows the glass shards of her eminent self-destruction. If she's not careful, her shrapnel will incapacitate Vera, but it already has.

This will kill that.

So they say.

Vera does the unthinkable. She lays a hand upon Joan's. Her smaller one offers a reassuring squeeze. Joan stiffens, turned to marble once again. After everything, she cannot fathom how Vera manages to get under her skin so well. To pull apart her ribcage and reveal her black, black heart that isn't rotten, but feels the capacity of surpressed emotion.

Silently, she stares.

Ironic how they sit near the empty grave of a dead woman resurrected.

“You saved my life,” she repeats the speech issued in medical none too long ago. This time, it will play out differently.

“I don't know why,” Vera murmurs while occupying herself with the cool hand beneath hers.

Their fingers fall into place, cogs in a great machine.

"You do know," Joan presses, but maybe she's projecting. Hoping for the truth to set her free.

It's a ridiculous notion, even for Joan Ferguson.

Like smoke, her voice encompasses Vera.

This is what it means to choke.

Vera doesn't respond. She navigates the playing field. Her little mouse has tact, her eyes glued to a withered bouquet of red roses. The petals are a reminder of Bea Smith.

A woman who has made her fallen so _low_.

Passing blame onto others is a form of absolution in itself.

Vera makes quick footwork in this fencing match of theirs. On the defense, she needn't communicate the depth of her fucked up feelings. She tried once and left Joan alone to ruminate on how they _didn't_ see eye to eye.

“You're not safe here; you know that. You have to leave.”

“Hm.”

So she's leaving countries again.

Farewell from Russia, with love.

Farewell to Austrailia, with faded hate.

"Where will you go?" Vera asks, incredibly bold. She's turned to steel.

Joan detangles herself from Vera despite how she craves to touch her: to rest a hand on that sinewy shoulder, to loosen that bun that was too similar to her own. Instead, she does none of these things. Falls victim to her repression and stands. Her knees pop.

Her eyes linger on the mausoleum that will outlast them all.

“Away, Vera. I suspect that's what you always wanted.”

Pivoting on heel, Joan embarks on her lonely soldier's march. She has a head start. As far as the world's concerned, she's a dead woman.

A ghost.

No one.

Worthless.

She now stands in the crossroads. The dirt path dissects itself into four divergent routes. She could delve ahead into the future or regress into the past; left or right depicts a similar fate.

“That's the problem, Joan. You thought you knew what I wanted.”

Her response comes across as a sigh, forlorn and worn.

Vera watches the worn curve of her back, mesmerized by how the muscles strain. She rubs her thighs. Pulls herself away from the bench.

Like the old, golden days, she follows.

The ground sinks beneath their feet.

It's a shallow grave for them both.  
  


 


End file.
